The Anklet and the Handcuffs
by authorintraining7
Summary: Rated T just to be safe. Takes place during Season 1. Fairly AU and unintentionally so. The longest amount of time Peter had ever performed CPR was twenty-two minutes and seven and a half seconds.  The victim had died anyway...


**I found this oneshot (that, just to warn you, lacks a sense of conclusion :P) and, since I need a break from my story, Nalo, anyway, I decided to fix it up a little and post it. Now, it's dated, as you will soon discover, and unintentinoally AU. It takes place around the end of season 1, which is probably when I wrote it. Fowler is a bit OOC because I made him especially evil in this; the "muha-ha-ha" kind of evil. ;P**

**And, yes, this one shot is heavily based on two very famous scenes from the NCIS episode, _Requiem_. :D**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything of White Collar, nor do I own anything of NCIS.**

The Anklet and the Handcuffs

He should have seen the signs. He should have been aware that the meeting location was an easy place for him to get killed without sparking much alarm. He should have called Peter, or at least Mozzie, instead of doing what that deceiving ransom letter told him to do—_come alone_. He should have known, from past experiences, that Fowler was a liar that wouldn't think twice about cheating him.

But all of that had been blocked out of his mind after he read Kate's name on the clean sheet of paper. Her perfume scented the page—meant to taunt him, no doubt. Oh, and taunt him it did. He hadn't smelt her fragrance in, what felt like, years. After he read her name, his senses were practically shot. He had to get to her, as much for her sake as for his own. It would have killed him if something horrible happened to his Kate.

"Oops, looks like I forgot something," Fowler said sarcastically, grinning with dark arrogance.

No Kate.

Neal glared. With no Kate, his senses were no longer so shot. He knew, like the court of law, whatever he said could be and would be used against him. Fowler, as far as he was concerned, was nothing but lies. Even if Neal was foolish enough to ask something meaningful, he would probably only receive tainted truth.

The cold, ocean wind blew through the open warehouse. Kate loved the beach. She loved how the ocean looked, smelt, and felt beneath her fingertips. Neal found it enjoyable, himself. One of the most classic paintings was the view of the sunset over an ocean horizon, after all. Today, however, the ocean seemed harsh and unwelcoming. Fowler's presence in front of sparkling waters had ruined the view. Fowler's thugs behind Neal (clearly not from the Bureau. One of them was wearing an eye-patch while the other one was shaggy with hair, which was improper and, frankly, disgusting... The eye-patch wasn't so bad though, if Neal wanted to be honest... it just made the guy's other eye look so...small... small eyes were creepy) weren't exactly helping him appreciate the gorgeous ocean setting beyond those metal walls either.

Fowler pocketed his hands casually, that grin, sharp with hubris, still etched in his facial features. He gave a short nod to the men behind Neal. Neal had no idea what that meant, but remained furiously stoic as one of the men grabbed his wrists and yanked them behind his back.

"Easy," Fowler ordered. He then turned and stared Neal dead in the eye, "Don't want those bruises popping up in autopsy."

"You're going to kill me?" Neal blurted out, hiding his fear behind a defiant snort, "What about the music box?"

"Oh, I have it," Fowler answered quickly, tilting his head as his grin widened. Neal would have made a comment about the freak's twisted sense of joy if his voice hadn't been caught in his throat. Fowler took a demeaning step forward, "You can thank your friend Alex for that, by the way."

"Alex," Neal repeated, a stab of worry hitting his gut.

He knew Alex had a bit of a beef with him, but she would never stoop so low as to help a man like Fowler. Something's wrong. Well, more wrong than what he originally believed.

"And I didn't have to kidnap her girlfriend and wait months for results," Fowler bragged, as if this info would shame Neal in some way, "It only took two weeks."

"Where's Kate?" Neal barked, his articulate mind looping around straight back to Kate.

If he no longer had any leverage that the music box had given him, then Kate could be...

Fowler shook his head.

"You've been such a huge thorn in my side, Caffrey, but I would never hurt a lady. She's fine. I'd be more worry about what's going to happen to you."

"I'm sure."

A surprise breath left Neal as Fowler's thugs lifted him in the air.

"Hey! Put me down, Wolfman! You too, you overcompensating pirate!"

Neal kicked and struggled as best as he could, but he received little result. The thugs carelessly carried him over to his stol—his _borrowed_ car and shoved him in the driver's seat. Before Neal could jump out, the car door slammed shut. When he, awkwardly, tried to twist around and open the car door, a gun was aimed in his face. Annoyed more than afraid, Neal rested his cuffed hands back behind him. Then the passenger door opened and the other thug (eyepatch-guy) climbed in. He, Neal respectably noticed, did not carry a gun. However, he did have his car keys, which was curious.

"What are you—" Neal began to ask as the thug reached over and put the keys in the ignition. It was when he was following the movement of the car keys did Neal notice the brick duck taped to the gas pedal. He gaped at it before snapping his head over to the eyepatched-thug, who had just turned the keys in the ignition. The car jolted and trembled dramatically, screaming as if birthed and alive for the first time. Neal watched with horror as the thug reached over to take the car out of park and put into drive, "What about you? You'll crash too. You'll die with me!"

This didn't faze the man in the slightest. His face remained emotionless with the exception of a small twitch that tilted his lips upwards.

"I was a Navy SEAL," he assured before putting the car into drive.

Neal, confused, only had a second to express his confusion before the car immediately sped forward. His heart jumped with his body as he faced forward...and that's when Neal understood. His car was heading straight for the ocean...

Neal didn't scream. Frankly, it was a waste of breath and effort. Instead, he leapt for the steering wheel and tried to turn it as best as he could with just his chest and upper arms. Eyepatch-guy didn't like that though. The man grabbed Neal by the neck and yanked back in his seat. Neal's shoulders scrunched up around the hand that held his neck, feeling somewhat paralyzed under the beefy touch.

Neal wasn't granted time to think, to reflect, regret, to pray even. The car leapt in the air and then nosedived into the salt water. Before Neal knew it, his head was roughly smashed into the steering wheel in front of him.

Then everything went black.

*.*.*.*

He should have said something. Scratch that, he should have cuffed Neal to his cubicle and forced information out of him. That's how he usually dealt with Neal and his..._antics_. Why the sudden change in method? Well, he thought Neal had another criminal ally and, instead of the usual confrontation, he thought he could get more information by following Neal. He had no idea Neal's suspicious behavior meant that he was in danger, and by Fowler, no less. He should have seen the signs. He should have recognized that Neal was walking into a trap. He should have, but he didn't.

Peter called for backup as soon as he saw Fowler standing in front of Neal. After that, all smart decisions went out the window.

Peter normally fared well under such adrenaline rushes. He was trained for it, after all. This was different though. He couldn't define exactly how it was different, for his thoughts drained out of his brain as soon as that car hit the ocean water. Not a second after that, his legs sprinted forward on their own accord.

He wasn't really aware of being in the warehouse until he shot a man dead. He didn't remember getting his gun out, but something in his brain was still, apparently, thinking clearly enough to perform such an action. He didn't bother looking for Fowler because, quite honestly, he forgot to.

The ocean was growing closer and closer, but, to Peter, it wasn't close enough. He pushed his legs harder and ignored his protesting lungs. Pushing off the pier's edge, he didn't think twice about throwing his gun aside as he dove into the cold water.

It was both the low temperature and the sting of the salt water that slowed Peter down, if only for a moment. It was his saving grace, really, for it was that moment of hesitation that allowed him to see a large man swimming from Neal's car with something in his hand. An important memory flashing across his eyes, Peter quickly looked around for his gun. It was a couple of moments too long when he finally caught sight of his weapon sliding along the sandy floor. The large man had obviously spotted him and was, very agilely, swimming over to him like a shark to a small fish. Not wasting any more time, Peter hurriedly, if not clumsily, swam over towards his swaying gun. The sluggish speed was growing more and more irritating, especially since the slowness didn't seem to effect the giant man's movements at all. Peter was about a foot away from his weapon when a large fist struck his back. Ironically, the very person trying to kill Peter had actually pushed him closer to the device that would save his life. Without a second thought, Peter grabbed his gun and spun around. The man was near enough for dodging to be impossible and was dead in a matter of seconds.

Peter should have grabbed the item, most likely evidence, from the dead man's hand, but he didn't. His lungs screaming at him for oxygen, Peter climbed up the invisible water-ladder to the surface. He stayed up there longer than he wanted to, taking in selfish gulps of air before desperately diving back under.

_Sharks_, Peter thought as he abandoned his gun to the sandy floor, _Blood means sharks._

He felt so painfully languid underwater. If they were on land, he would have been reached the car by now. If he had just said something... The nauseating amount of emotions tumbling in his stomach wasn't helping the situation either.

_I hate the ocean._

Peter didn't feel relief when he finally reached the car. If possible, Peter felt even more worry than before. It was probably foolish to think Neal would still be eagerly conscious, making some incomprehensible joke underwater. Peter should have known better. He, of all people, should have known better. He had witnessed Neal Caffrey first hand only last about one minute without oxygen.

Peter was in rage when the door didn't open. He tugged on the handle a couple of more times in vain, giving up and wastefully punching the car window. Peter quickly swam over to the other side of the car, praying to a God he hadn't spoken to in years to open that door for him. A rush of religious "Thank You"s consumed Peter's thoughts when the door finally escaped from the vehicle's body.

The sight of Neal was disconcerting, to say the least. It was hard to tell in the murky water, but there appeared to be a form of color on his forehead…a bruise, Peter guessed. Neal's body bobbed up and down very slowly, as if lifelessly protesting the seatbelt that kept him in place. The limited movement and expression made Neal look empty; too empty. Peter couldn't stand it.

Not wasting another second, Peter hurriedly lulled his floating body over to Neal's. He unbuckled Neal's seatbelt before grabbing the conman and pushing, with the strength of his legs, both of them out of the drowned vehicle.

His head was pounding murderously now, both from lack of oxygen and the high amount of stress. The muscles in his legs were constricting painfully, begging their owner to cease movement. Peter, like a good agent, ignored the protests his body was preaching at him. He kicked and snaked his way up higher and higher towards the surface, frustrated and panicked at how far away it seemed to be. His arms also fighting against him, Peter tried desperately to pull Neal above himself so that he could, rightfully, be the first to taste air. Of course, physics wouldn't allow the noble act, but Peter didn't care about that once the two of them skyhopped out of the water.

"Neal!" Peter wanted to shout, but he ended up choking on a gulp full of sea water instead.

The FBI agent didn't bother using breath to speak after that. One arm wrapped around Neal's chest tightly, he stroked jaggedly through the heavy waters. He couldn't seem to get enough air, no matter how much he gasped for it. At one point, it could be said that he was hyperventilating, but he managed to reach the dock before it became a more dangerous inconvenience. He looked back at Neal, studying his still features for the briefest of moments. Seeing Neal so helplessly dying renewed a protective strength in Peter, who officially vowed to himself that he wouldn't let it end this way—not to Neal—not to his responsibility—his friend—his partner.

Without thinking it through, Peter positioned Neal over one of his shoulders before he grabbed the dock's ladder. With immediate hurry, Peter climbed up the ladder in sloppy strides. The pain of Neal's weight didn't really hit until his upper torso was completely out of the water. He didn't stagger, which might have impressed Peter if he hadn't been distracted with more important things, but loud, agonizing groans escaped his lips with each step he climbed. So by the time he managed to get the upper half of his body above the deck, he was careless about being gentle and practically through Neal on the hard, ocean-soaked wood.

_He'll get over it_, Peter thought numbly as he threw himself on top of the dock.

Instinctively, Peter felt for a pulse on Neal's neck while, at the same time, feeling for a breath. There was a slow pulse, but no breath. As unsurprising as that should have been, Peter still felt his heart beat a little faster at the revelation. He tilted the ex-con's head back and began CPR.

One breath. Two breath.

Then, with trembling fingers, he unbuttoned and tore the top of Neal's shirt, revealing the bare skin just above the conman's heart. Peter didn't hesitate to start compressions.

One, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one—

"Come on! Come on!" Peter begged raggedly, feeling cold and exhausted. Peter knew he couldn't slow down—knew how much using up a few seconds could cost him—could cost Neal. The longest amount of time Peter had ever performed CPR was twenty-two minutes and seven and a half seconds. His throat had felt burnt dry and his entire body had ached after a mere ten minutes, but he forced himself to continue for the victim's sake... The victim had died anyway, his dead eyes left to stare at Peter as if to condemn him... The longer Neal was out of it, the smaller his chances became of surviving this ordeal, "Come on, Caffrey!"

El would just be devastated. Despite her admirable strength and graceful patience, Peter knew that she would need him to be the rock through this horrible tragedy. Somehow, Peter just knew he wouldn't come through for her. He would be too selfish to focus on her needs and instead cling to her to satisfy his own. He would let her down as she mourned the loss of someone very important to her. Peter would hate himself for it.

Mozzie would disappear. Peter would probably never see the strange man again. While, under normal circumstances, that wouldn't be the biggest loss in Peter's world, it would strike him just the same. They may not have liked each other, but there was a certain amount of respect between the two...whatever they were. Vanishing without a goodbye would do Peter no respect—not that he would deserve it anyway. If Peter was honest with himself, he would want Mozzie to disappear wordlessly. If he had to see that strange, bald man, it'd just remind Peter of who he couldn't—didn't save in time.

Jones and Cruz would be different. Different how, Peter couldn't decide. Would they be more distant? Would they solemnly ignore it and claim it to be respectful? Would they be less of themselves? Peter wasn't sure how well they knew Neal Caffrey personally (a criminal record only tells so much, as Peter had come to learn). While he could understand that Jones and Cruz enjoyed Neal's company and input, he wasn't sure how much they really cared about Neal. He didn't who'd they feel more pity for: him or Neal.

Kate would just have to get that agitating music box herself. Peter was still convinced she had been using Neal this entire time for her own, greedy gain. She was a very beautiful girl with enchanting eyes. Peter could understand how easy it'd be to fall under her spell. It was absolutely heartbreaking to see Neal, one of the smartest men he had ever met, fall for her tricks. It seemed like every move he made he made for her. Perhaps, Kate would feel guilt and horror over Neal's death. Peter didn't know and didn't want to know how that crafty woman would mourn over her dead puppet.

One breath. Two breath.

"Neal! Wake up!" Peter's broken voice demanded as he started compressions again.

One, two, one, two-

"Neal!"

Peter didn't know what he would do—drink, most likely. He didn't think he was capable of becoming an alcoholic, but he would probably come close. He'd take some weeks of sick leave, ignoring his painful addiction to his work. Work would remind him of Neal, of Neal's death, of his failure—Peter didn't know how he would go back. Peter would probably apologize to God several times every day, not knowing what else to do with the consuming guilt. People would try to convince him that it wasn't his fault—that he couldn't have known. People would nag him to seek help, and Peter would resent them. He would resent them no matter what they did. They wouldn't be able to understand his agony, and Peter would resent them for that. He would cry more than he'd ever want to. He would discover himself being bitter towards his dear, dear Elizabeth... and then he would hate himself even more. He'd see some fancy wine bottle with gibberish scribbled on it and think of Neal, and that would temporarily cease his drinking rage, leaving him to bawl drunkenly on the floor. He'd beg God to forgive him before thinking to beg Neal for the same thing. The silent responses would fuel his taunting guilt and Peter was sure he'd never be relieved of such grief. He'd never be forgiven for this.

One breath. Two-

Neal's body jolted to life. His eyes shut tight, Neal mindlessly flipped his body over towards Peter and puked his lungs out of filthy salt water. So filled with relief and joy, Peter ignored the disgusting water on his pants and eased Neal to lay back with shaky hands. Neal's body was greatly animated now, shivering and shifting all about. Peter couldn't keep the smile off his face.

"I gotcha Neal," Peter assured when a panicked hand grabbed and squeezed his arm relentlessly. Neal continued his violent coughing, clutching Peter with his right hand while his left hand searched anxiously for something else to hold on to. Peter reached over and carefully grabbed the erratic left arm, saying in a reassuring tone, "You're okay Neal. Just focus on breathing. Everything is going to be fine."

Neal's eyes slowing blinked open, his coughing beginning to diminish. He blinked a couple times at Peter, squinting his pained eyes against the bright sun.

"P-P-Peter?" Neal questioned fearfully.

"Yeah, I'm right here Neal," Peter responded, rubbing the ex-con's left arm comfortingly. Neal closed his eyes, suddenly appearing so aged. As Neal continue to shiver, Peter started to notice just how cold it really was outside. His teeth began to chatter before the rest of his body caught up with the trembling movement. Annoyed and desiring to overcome the silence, Peter grumbled, "I'm g-get-ting t-t-too old for th-this."

Neal snorted at that, bringing a smile to Peter's bluing lips.

"I c-could have t-t-told you that, old m-man."

"Hey," Peter quickly replied, as if this was just some average day at the office, "I'm n-n-not th-that much old-der th-than you."

"L-least a d-decad-de."

"L-less than." Peter lied.

"What-tev-ver," Neal responded with a knowing smirk.

"Shh," Peter scorned, looking over his shoulder, "You hear th-that?"

"Hmmm?"

"S-sir-rens and t-t-tire sc-screech-ching," Peter answered, laughing somewhat hysterically as he turned back to Neal, "Th-they're here-th-they're c-c-coming."

Peter could hear his agents' footsteps and shouts as they sprinted over to the dock. Peter felt tears well up in his eyes and was quick to blame the sea water for his emotional appearance. He hadn't stopped rubbing Neal's arm, but Neal finally let go of his upon hearing the news.

"C-c-could-dn't be h-here t-t-ten min-nut-tes ag-go?"


End file.
